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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25175143">Pearls in Oyster Flesh</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmenghia/pseuds/Carmenghia'>Carmenghia</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Queer as Folk (UK)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, Post-Canon, Stuart Has Thoughts and Opinions, Travel, Two Twats In America, Vince Is The Fun One</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 06:36:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,109</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25175143</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmenghia/pseuds/Carmenghia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Middle of America, Stuart and Vince, and a state fair.  Need I say more?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Stuart Alan Jones/Vince Tyler</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Pearls in Oyster Flesh</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">~~</p><p class="p1">Somewhere around Tulsa, Stuart decided he’d had enough.</p><p class="p1">“It’s brilliant, Stuart. Look at this, look at it. A State Fair. Think about it. Fifty states, Fifty fairs. Do you think they coordinate them all so none overlap? Bet there are people who go to each one. Can you see Hazel? She’d love it.” </p><p class="p1">Vince chatted happily, licking his finger and then turning the pages of whatever free piece of crap that was passing as a newspaper. Stuart had few rules in his life. But one was that if it was free, it was usually shit.</p><p class="p1">Sex excluded, of course. But paying for it was fun too, even when it was for play.</p><p class="p1">Another lick, another fucking page turn. </p><p class="p1">
  <em>Like a fucking old-age pensioner reading the Mail.</em>
</p><p class="p1">No different really than the old Vince, except the old Vince didn’t carry a 9mm, and the old Vince didn’t wear the tight jeans that the new Vince was currently sporting. Still, the steel and the arse didn’t make up for the extra annoyance that was Vince Tyler at 9am.</p><p class="p1">“Fuck sake, Vince. No more of this.” </p><p class="p1">“What, look.It’s the biggest fair in Oklahoma.” A finger raised, and Vince went down again, paper sounding like screeching cats fucking against a wall. </p><p class="p1">Hangover material, indeed. He snatched the paper before he could think about it.Faster than he imagined, considering how he felt.</p><p class="p1">“The licking, Vince. The licking.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> J</span>esus Suffering Christ.” Stuart kept the paper on his side, out of reach, and stirred milk into his coffee. </p><p class="p1">“Not my fault you drank so much.” Vince responded cheerfully.“I wonder what’s in that hash I ordered. You ever see so many different breakfast foods, Stuart? Eggs done anyway you want?Think that means <em>any</em> way? </p><p class="p1">“I don’t fucking know.I ordered toast.”</p><p class="p1">“Don’t try to outdrink someone named Carl who weighs twenty-one stone then, you twat.”</p><p class="p1">Whatever karma Stuart had somehow amassed in his thirty years had decided to shine down on him, because the waitress arrived, three plates for Vince, and one tiny little plate of toast for him. The smell of the grease coming from Vince’s side of the table made him want to vomit.</p><p class="p1">“You’re not eating all that, are you?” Stuart lifted up the anaemic toast, buttered into an early grave, but took a bite, forcing his teeth to chew and his throat to swallow. He didn’t want to tell Vince that not only was he hungover, he was sick. Fucking sick off of whiskey and bets. Like an amateur.</p><p class="p1">“Course I am. Better than a fry-up, this.” Vince pulled out another newspaper, and Stuart wondered if he saved them in triplicate.</p><p class="p1">You could take the boy out of the grocery store, but he was still off his fucking trolly.</p><p class="p1">“Shit.”Stuart muttered, milky coffee that just tasted like grey dishwater. America the beautiful, and he was still doing the same bloody thing.</p><p class="p1">Vince was the one with the real sense of adventure.</p><p class="p1">“I’m going to go have a lie down.” </p><p class="p1">“What?”Vince looked up from his paper. “Right. Well you look like shit. Told you that you can’t hold whiskey, Irish or not.”</p><p class="p1">“Vince?” There was a sharpness to his tongue, Manchester-tinged. Feeling closed in, guilty and small, because running away didn’t always solve everything.</p><p class="p1">Stuart moved out of the booth, still graceful, knowing everyone’s eyes were on him. He was used to it in places like this now, and loved to flash a bit of that silver gun, just to show people he meant business, and that exotic didn’t mean fragile.</p><p class="p1">“Yeah?” Bits of sausage on a fork, hoisted half-way up, and Stuart stopped. He was going to tell Vince to go fuck himself, tell him that he wasn’t clever or funny.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> B</span>ut it all died on his lips. Vince’s open face, concerned and smiling, against crisp-bright morning light making him think twice. Because Vince wasn’t old Vince anymore. He was new Vince, and Stuart was acting like a grade-A twat, all because of a stupid hangover.</p><p class="p1">He hated when the world focused in on him like that, made sure he saw every detail in it, too.</p><p class="p1">“Not important. Wake me up in an hour. And you’re driving.”</p><p class="p1">~~</p><p class="p1">“Look at this, look at it, Stuart! It’s like Blackpool dropped in the middle of a cornfield.”</p><p class="p1">“It’s bloody bright.”</p><p class="p1">“That’s all you have to say?”</p><p class="p1">“Yup.”</p><p class="p1">“Come on.”</p><p class="p1">Stuart wasn’t prone to be tugged at, unless it was Vince, and he dragged his Italian leather shoes against the wet grass. He’d be sending Vince the bill for that, too.</p><p class="p1">“God, look at that queue!Who would have thought it would be so busy!”</p><p class="p1">“It’s a Friday night, Vince. You think these people have anything better to do?”</p><p class="p1">“Shut your face.It’s brilliant.” Vince bounced happily as they stood in line. Bouncing was an old Vince trait, one that grated on Stuart, and made him secretly wish he could be as excited about the world.</p><p class="p1">The thing was: he’d seen it all, done everything. He was king of the world.</p><p class="p1">And yet, Vince still found a way to make the most mundane into something special.</p><p class="p1">Stuart wanted that power, too.</p><p class="p1">“Ten dollars, Stuart. This must be a big deal. That’s what, five quid? Bargain. Hope they have candyfloss.Remember that time when Alexander got one of those machines, wrapped Dane’s head in that stuff?”</p><p class="p1">“It’s cotton candy here. Not candy floss.”</p><p class="p1">“I don’t care what it is; I haven’t had any in ages!” Vince’s voice was high and loud, and a few people stared. Foreign accents made way for quizzical looks.</p><p class="p1">“Sure this isn’t the line for fat camp?” Stuart mocked.</p><p class="p1">“Stuart…”The warning tone, but no indication to stop his train of thought. Brilliant.</p><p class="p1">“Come on, Vince. Look around. It’s like we’re two pearls in all that gray oyster flesh. You have to admit, we’re the two best looking people here. Americans thinking they’re the best looking in the world.”</p><p class="p1">“Shut it.” Vince laughed, not with unease, but because he didn’t have the gun. It was always better with the gun.</p><p class="p1">“Now, I’ll give you this, Los Angeles and New York, pretty people. But this part?Complete shite!”</p><p class="p1">“Shut your face, Stuart, you’re gonna get us kicked out, and I haven’t even paid yet.”</p><p class="p1">“Wait, when did you get money?” </p><p class="p1">“Stole it from that old lady at the diner. Thought she didn’t need her stack of twenties. They take their money so seriously here. Can you believe it? Green and white and just boring.”Vince’s face was poker-straight and Stuart hated the fact he still had to suss Vince out.</p><p class="p1">“You aren’t fucking serious. Vince Tyler, I leave you alone for one minute…”Stuart shook his head.</p><p class="p1">Vince waved the twenty in front of his face, crisp and clean. “I went to the bloody cash machine, Stuart. You know, cash? Course you wouldn’t, think your Amex is going to pay for itself?”</p><p class="p1">“Sandra deals with that.”</p><p class="p1">“Still?”</p><p class="p1">Stuart shifted his weight from one foot to another, tried for a smile to get him out of things he didn’t want to talk about. </p><p class="p1">“I’ve known you too long, doesn’t work.” Vince folded up the twenty and shoved into his front jean pocket, shrugging. “And no, I don’t want to know how much money you really have.”</p><p class="p1">Stuart had plenty, but he never said, and Vince never really wanted to ask. Stuart knew it would break the spell of being outlaws, when really they were just coasting on a strong pound and childish dreams.</p><p class="p1">“This line is taking bloody forever. Who the fuck queues for a fair?”</p><p class="p1">Vince coughed, laughing and sputtering. “You, Stuart.”</p><p class="p1">~~</p><p class="p1">Grotesque wasn’t even the word to describe the scene that Vince forced upon him. If Stuart had thought the outside was bad, well, the inside was just insufferable.</p><p class="p1">“Look at that, Stuart! Fried Twinkie! Fried cheesecake! Oh my god, they fry everything!”</p><p class="p1">“What? It’s no different than the chip shop. You aren’t going to eat that shite, are you?”</p><p class="p1">“Course I am. It’s why you go to a fair.”</p><p class="p1">“You’re going to be huge, Vince.”</p><p class="p1">“I don’t care. I’m eating it all.” Vince made a beeline for the first booth and Stuart hung back. He wasn’t going to be an accessory to the debasement of food, and he was still nursing his hangover a bit. And Vince didn’t even care.</p><p class="p1">The fair was nothing he hadn’t seen before. Food and games, unwinnable because they were rigged. Rides that looked like they had seen better decades, horribly overpriced toys given to ungrateful children who would lose them in the carpark.</p><p class="p1">His own parents never took him to a fair, and he wasn’t going to take his son. Not even to Blackpool, not even if Vince begged. </p><p class="p1">“Cor, Stuart!”Vince waved at him, two big pieces of some atrocious food item stuffed in his free hand.</p><p class="p1">“Look at this. On a stick, cheesecake! Got you one too.” Vince took a bite, cream and white on his lips, self-satisfied grin like he’d never had anything better. “Go on,” Stuart looked at the thing Vince thrust in front of him, and in a lapse of judgement, took it. </p><p class="p1">Stuart held the offending piece of ‘food’ between his thumb and forefinger, looking for someone to hand it off to, or the nearest bin. “You’ve got to be kidding.”</p><p class="p1">“Oh shove it in your gob and be done with it.It won’t kill you. And if you keep it up, I’ll keep buying double. Where’s your Amex?”</p><p class="p1">“Cash only, Vince. I looked.” Stuart held the cake up to his face, and licked, not wanting to admit the warmth tasted good, and it made him feel like a kid getting way with stealing sweets from the chemist.</p><p class="p1">“You see those big dogs? Big as you and me. We should win one, send it back to Alfie.” </p><p class="p1">“What the hell would he do with it?” Stuart looked at the droopy-eyed things, hanging from the rafters of every grifter’s makeshift storefront. “Besides, the games are rigged.”</p><p class="p1">“They had to stop that. Remember that cancer kid, the one that won that big trip, and when they showed him how all the behind the scenes things were done, he found out they glued those bottles down?”</p><p class="p1">“Vince! That was a movie!”</p><p class="p1">“Was not. Saw it before Countdown. On the news and everything.”</p><p class="p1">“No one wins those big prizes, anyway.” Stuart admonished. He didn’t play carnival games.</p><p class="p1">“People do. The person in front of me won one. Over on that rifle game.” Vince pointed his half-eaten cheesecake down the midway, right at someone hoisting a rifle up, serious and sure. “You gotta hit the target with blanks. Can’t imagine it’s any different than the gun.”</p><p class="p1">“Yeah, fine. Still think it’s rigged though. Bet you a hundred quid we don’t win one of those toys.” Stuart flung his cheesecake thing into the nearest bin, a weight lifted off of him, now that the offensive food was gone from his life.</p><p class="p1">“Stuart! That was almost a full one.”</p><p class="p1">“Yeah, and so is that belly. Should be having more sex, Vince. Good for that mid-section.”</p><p class="p1">“Got good genes.Look at me dad.” Vince patted his flat stomach proudly. </p><p class="p1">“Do I have to? Jesus, I should just leave you here, let you become one of them.”</p><p class="p1">“I’m taking that bet. And if I win, you’re driving to Austin, too.”</p><p class="p1">“Sure of yourself, Vincent Tyler, aren’t you?”</p><p class="p1">“Someone ought to be.Oh and by the way, did I mention you had to drive naked?”</p><p class="p1">“Don’t be a tart, Vince, it doesn’t suit you.” Stuart rolled his eyes. New Vince had a way of at least making bets interesting, nothing like Manchester – flat money and no fun.</p><p class="p1">“You love it.” Vince leaned against the counter, and flipped over a few dollars.“How many rounds we get for that?”</p><p class="p1">“The guy looked at the bills Vince laid out, and shrugged.“Give you six pulls. Pull all six; you got your choice of anything in the booth.”</p><p class="p1">“Even you?” Stuart spat out, gleeful as he cocked a hip and touched the rifle resting on the counter.</p><p class="p1">The man behind the booth levelled a look at him, and shrugged.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> "</span>That’ll cost you more than ten bucks, friend.” He shifted, cool and calm, loaded up the rifle and handed it to Stuart. “Besides, I never take anyone up on that sort of offer until I see how they shoot.”</p><p class="p1">Maybe the Midwest wasn’t so boring, after all. Stuart hated when someone was a good sport. He’d much rather have a homophobe.</p><p class="p1">“Go on, Stuart. Shut your face and shoot the gun.”</p><p class="p1">“Rifle.” The man corrected.</p><p class="p1">“Right, sorry. Rifle.”</p><p class="p1">Not to be put out or to disappoint, Stuart lifted the rifle up and squinted.It felt like a natural extension, not steel, and not perfect, but good enough, and licked his lips as he pulled, that unmistakable feeling hitting him right in his stomach.It didn’t matter if it was steel and real bullets, or a blank in a rifle - the thrill was almost the same.</p><p class="p1">“One!” The man called out, and Stuart shrugged. It was easy to hit one. Anyone who was worth their weight knew accuracy was better than brute force.</p><p class="p1">He leaned down again, Vince in the corner of his eye, bright and excited, already picking out exactly what horrible piece of stuffing they’d have to lug around.</p><p class="p1">Another pull, another hit. The game wasn’t rigged, Stuart figured. He was caught between throwing the game anyway, and winning his bet, or not losing face. Besides, driving naked to Austin wasn’t all that bad and he had already figured out how to make Vince feel sorry he ever offered up that sort of bet. There were all *sorts* of things he could get up to naked, and driving the Jeep. </p><p class="p1">Another, and then two more followed. Vince cheering as Stuart closed in on the last one, brown glass gleaming yellow. He pulled, and heard the clatter and smack of the glass. Six down, easy, the grifter giving him an appraising look, his arms opening with a flourish.</p><p class="p1">“Take whatever you want then, friend. Fair and square.”</p><p class="p1">“Stuart, you did it! Oh my god, I can’t believe it.” Vince chattered excitedly, and Stuart remembered how it felt to give Vince exactly what he wanted. It was one of the only things that filled him with a good sort of feeling, even if he had to coat it in vinegar.</p><p class="p1">“You win, Vince.” Stuart set the rifle down, and stood back.</p><p class="p1">“What the hell are we going to do with something that big?” Vince frowned even as he pointed his finger at a brown dog, and Stuart eyed the perfect mark. “Mind, the best part of this is gonna be seeing you driving naked.”</p><p class="p1">“Hold on, give me the dog.” Stuart wrapped his arms around the furry animal, and walked over to two kids, who had been watching him play the game, their eyes still glued to Stuart and the gun.</p><p class="p1">“Here you go.” Stuart knelt down and handed the dog over to the two little boys, sandy blond hair just like the picture Romey had sent of Alfie. </p><p class="p1">“What?For us? But we didn’t win it.” One boy said, his glasses falling down the bridge of his nose.</p><p class="p1">“Too big to carry back home.” Stuart stood up, his knees cracking, body reminding him he couldn’t catch youth as quick as he used to.</p><p class="p1">“Thanks, mister.” The other boy mumbled, his eyes shy, but his cheeks flushed, almost like he was embarrassed that Stuart had noticed them watching.</p><p class="p1">“No problem.”Maybe he’d take Alfie to Blackpool. Someday.</p><p class="p1">“Come on Ezra, we can hold it between us. We’ll share it!” The boy with the glasses helped the other boy with the dog, until they had it between them both, both holding hands with their new friend.</p><p class="p1">“Stuart Alan Jones. Your heart beats, after all.” He felt Vince behind him, a different kind of heat than a Tulsa summer.</p><p class="p1">“Fuck off, Vince.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> I</span>t was impractical, anyway.”</p><p class="p1">“You made their night, you did.” The boys walked into the crowd, swinging the toy, heads held high, briefly stopping to readjust their gait, whispering to each other, before disappearing into the mass of people. </p><p class="p1">“You know how much that would have been to post home?”</p><p class="p1">“You’ll send Alfie an even bigger one.”</p><p class="p1">“Yeah.” Stuart hated that he liked being on the run better than being a father, but he hoped that one day, his son would love him for it.</p><p class="p1">“Cor, look at that.It’s been ages since I’ve been on one.” Vince pushed Stuart forward, past the smaller booths, down a path, until Stuart realized what Vince has been looking at.</p><p class="p1">“The Ferris wheel, Vince. No. That’s for kids.”</p><p class="p1">“Who sounds like an old man now?” Sugar-fuelled, almost like a coke high, Vince gleefully shoved a few bills to the kid who held the keys to the kingdom.</p><p class="p1">Stuart had never told Vince he was afraid of heights. He’d lied and played the game, facing his fear head on, dangling above Manchester with nothing but a prayer that a swift wind would send him tumbling off the building – because being a dad meant being old, and an accident was easier than intention.</p><p class="p1">The attraction of teetering on that roof was that there was no safety, locked in and locked up wasn’t something Stuart ever liked, and the thought of being stuck at the top with no out was not a feeling he ever wanted to have.</p><p class="p1">“Are you coming or what?” Vince held their tickets, the kid selling them watching their little one-act with interest.</p><p class="p1">“No. I’m going for a piss, and maybe a shag with that one.” Stuart eyed the kid, figuring he would get a reaction, but was disappointed when the kid just shrugged and turned away, walking up to the operator.</p><p class="p1">“Losing your touch.”</p><p class="p1">“Fuck off.”Stuart shrugged. “He’s too scrawny, anyway. Bet he’s shagging that other guy, look at them. All deep in conversation, probably over which axel grease to use.”</p><p class="p1">“Shut it, Stuart. Are you coming or what?”</p><p class="p1">“Or what. Told you I was going for a piss.”</p><p class="p1">“Or a shag?” </p><p class="p1">“With this lot? Why bother? Dregs of humanity, Vince. Might even have to settle for you.” No bite to it, soft and smooth, like driving down a straight highway, knowing exactly where you were going.</p><p class="p1">“Not this again. I’m going. Twice.” Vince took both tickets and walked up the broken path, Stuart hanging back, not going for a piss, because he didn’t trust the thing in front of him.</p><p class="p1">It seemed whatever discussion was to be had between the two carnies was done the younger one heading back to his booth; the older one moved the levers, as Vince waited to get on.</p><p class="p1">“Afraid of the wheel?” The guy was resting against the shoddy wooden structure, cigarette poised between his lips, still pink and rosy, and Stuart knew those lips were a dead give-away for someone who had lived a lot better than he let on.</p><p class="p1">“I’m not afraid of anything.” Stuart stood a little taller, his face blank and unreadable.</p><p class="p1">“You’re afraid of something.” The smoke made Stuart’s mouth water, because when he had smoked, he liked Marlboro’s the best.</p><p class="p1">“Don’t you have tickets to take, or something to do?” Stuart’s eyes watched as the wheel turned, over and over, Vince smiling, not looking down at him.</p><p class="p1">“Nope. There’s a bigger wheel in the middle of the fair. Biggest one in the country. Travels around. Most people go on that one. But this one, it’s got style.”</p><p class="p1">Stuart shrugged.It was no different than any one he’d seen before, so he just agreed, short and clipped, and hoped this guy would move along.</p><p class="p1">“Your friend is cute. In a vanilla ice-cream cone kind of way. What part of Dublin are you from? You sound Southside to me.”</p><p class="p1">Stuart blinked. “Uh…no.Northside.” Who the fuck was this man, anyway?</p><p class="p1">“Hmm, accent’s changed a bit. Heard your friend’s; he’s Mancunian for sure.”</p><p class="p1">“Vince is a twat.” A little too quick on the draw there, Stuart. Go for a piss, and don’t bother with this kid. </p><p class="p1">“He might be, but at least he’s riding the Wheel.” </p><p class="p1">“Is this what you do between taking tickets?” </p><p class="p1">“No. I usually read.” The man reached into his booth, pulling out a grimy book. “It’s a bit pedestrian for my tastes, but it was only a nickel at the bookstore, so I bought it.”</p><p class="p1">Stuart picked up the book, expecting to see some Mills and Boon shite his sister read on vacation. </p><p class="p1">“The Unbearable Lightness of Being.” Stuart looked down at the cover and back at the carnie. Someone had to be having a go at him.“What makes you think I’ve even read this?”</p><p class="p1">“You’ve got that look about you. Where did you study? Another long drag, almost down to the filter. </p><p class="p1">“London School of Economics.” Stuart muttered, no one back at home gave two shits about what he did or where he went. Especially not the lot he hung out with. This felt like years ago, and that scratchy uncomfortable feeling was tingling at the back of his neck.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Look at the Golden Boy.Think you’re golden now, Stuart.I’ve seen your magazines.I’m gonna tell mum and da.</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>And I’m gonna be so much better than you ever will be, Marie. </em>
</p><p class="p1">“Oh my father would *love* you.” The ride operator snuffed out his fag and pushed himself off the side of the booth.“Sure you don’t want to get on?I could ask to let you on with your friend.”</p><p class="p1">“I’m not bothered.”</p><p class="p1">“Could have fooled me.” The clattering of kids and tired parents turned his attention away. “Guess that’s my cue. He’s got another two minutes.”</p><p class="p1">“Good. I’m going for a piss, then.”Stuart waved his hand Vince-wards. “I’m sure he’ll wander off in search of the biggest ball of twine, or prettiest pig at the fair before I get back. Doesn’t matter, I’ve got the keys to the Jeep.”</p><p class="p1">“Suit yourself. I’m not his keeper.”</p><p class="p1">“I doubt you could bloody handle him.” Stuart muttered and ducked around the corner, out of sight of that bloody kid and his metal hunk of grinding gears, annoyed and frustrated that he was sussed out. He hated stuffed dogs and fried cheesecake, Oklahoma and over-educated carnies. But most of all, he hated Vince’s freedom, even in the captive arms of something bigger than himself. The gleam of a gun didn’t mean he got what he wanted, when he still held onto the other set of rules he lived by.</p><p class="p1">Huffing, he cut the corner, back again. The wheel was still turning, and the carnie was reading his book, handing out tickets, counting money with the corner of his eye.</p><p class="p1">“Changed your mind?”Not even a glance up at him. Wanker.</p><p class="p1">“Someone has to mind him.”</p><p class="p1">“Is that what you call it in Manchester?” He turned the page of his book, just like Vince, wet fingers, just as loud. </p><p class="p1">“Piss off.”</p><p class="p1">“I like that. ‘Piss off.’ Think I might try that out, see how it fits me. Go on, this ride is on me.”</p><p class="p1">Stuart didn’t think he had ever met anyone as insufferable, save for the twat dangling above him, and even as he walked down the path and waited in line, he knew that Vince still couldn’t see him.</p><p class="p1">The two brats in front of him were punching each other, the operator eyeing them wearily, but let them on, told them not to shake the seat, and sent them up, Vince down.</p><p class="p1">No words as the latch was opened and Vince sat, like he’d been waiting for Stuart, calm and cool, a spot on the red-ruby bench just for him.</p><p class="p1">Clank and lock, pin dropped and threaded, white-knuckle, but brave, as the wheel lurched, Stuart’s tense hand sliding next to Vince’s own, open and relaxed.</p><p class="p1">He might be afraid of a lot of things – time ticking away, lines on his face, the fact that Vince would get bored one day and just leave, but he wasn’t going to let some stupid piece of junk get the best of him.</p><p class="p1">“Look at it, Stuart.” Vince’s voice was soft, like air up above needed a quieter tone. </p><p class="p1">The wheel stopped and they teeter-tottered, higher than most everything else.</p><p class="p1">Stuart laughed, shaking their carriage even more. This was what he was afraid of? The space between heaven and earth? </p><p class="p1">“What so funny, you twat?”</p><p class="p1">Stuart lifted his arms out, wide – nothing holding him back.</p><p class="p1">“We’re still the best looking people here, Vince.”</p>
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